


the day has been long but the road longer

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Healing, M/M, Scurvy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23807431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: It has been a challenge, to become himself again.written for "All Well 2020", prompt: scurvy
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 33
Kudos: 107
Collections: All Well: The Terror April 2020 Fest





	the day has been long but the road longer

They lie under the sheets, the smell of smoke in the air from a newly extinguished candle. It is dark; there is no moon tonight, and anyway its light never quite manages to navigate the twist of buildings, brick walls, and slate roofs, to shine through their window. There is no sweeping vista to be seen, neither sea nor field nor forest, just the cramped yards and alleys of central London. Francis has thoughts of moving one day, because this is not the house he dreamed of for his retirement. It is a stepping stone, an interlude between Arctic and living in earnest.

For now however, the room is warm, the bed is warm. James is whispering, some interesting thing he overheard somewhere recently. Heard it and thought Francis would want to hear it. Francis is half asleep, barely listening. James talks, and he can feel himself drifting, and he thinks that maybe this is _why_ James is talking – an aid to sleep.

His limbs are so heavy, he is so comfortable, he thinks that if there were some emergency he would not be able to leap out of bed to deal with it. _Let it take me_ , he thinks; this blessed rest is the only thing he wants, in this moment it is the only thing he has ever wanted. James makes it so easy, he makes everything so easy.

He is half dreaming even now, his thoughts growing illogical. Strange imaginings dance forth and colour his mind. He cannot tell if James is still talking, but there is a hand on his chest, and a kiss is pressed to his shoulder, through his nightshirt.

In the morning it is raining, and there is an empty space next to Francis.

James is across the room, dressing. _Has he got plans_ , Francis tries to remember, or is he just going down to breakfast –such leisure they enjoy, even now it is still a wonder. James notices him stir, crosses the room to pet his hair, stroke his cheek.

“Darling,” he says, voice rough from sleep counterpointed by the sharp white angles of his collar, the neatness of his dark cravat. James is put together, always, will never allow himself to be anything less. He will never again allow himself to be brought low, after the bleeding, after the tent. How close he had come to being not _together_ at all, how close he had become to being nothing. He ties his cravat as if it is the only thing keeping his head on his body.

“Darling,” Francis returns, which is not his usual wont, and for it he is rewarded with a sweet smile. He reaches for James’ hand, blindly bringing it to his mouth to press a kiss to his palm. Fingers curl around his jaw. The hand withdraws after a moment, Francis’ eyes close again.

“I’m going out,” James says, across the room again.

“Yes,” Francis remembers now, “what time is it?"

“Nearly ten.”

This rouses him a little. The Crozier of only a few years ago would have abhorred this slug-a-bed behaviour, dictated to by a strict naval life as he was, but the Crozier who has lately been rescued from the Arctic is _tired,_ and often.

James Clark Ross, _deus ex machina_ come to bring Franklin’s men home, had cried upon seeing how hale and hearty Crozier was – at least in comparison to his men, which wasn’t saying much really – but return to England has triggered such an incredible exhaustion that Francis wonders if there aren’t some lingering remnants of a disease in him after all.

Now, he retires early and rises late like some decrepit old gentleman, and he considers himself lucky that James only complains occasionally, and is still content to share his bed. He considers himself lucky that James is around to share his bed at all.

It has been a slow road to recovery – James has had the longest way to go of any of them – and he is not quite yet home and dry. It has been a challenge, to become himself again.

The hair is the most obvious thing, and it is what people comment on first, and James will smile and pretend its loss is not a painful thing to him. It was in a rather piteous state by the end – though really it was no end at all – for its own sake, James ordered it to be shorn short as soon as he might, once he had found his voice, once he had the strength to sit up, cramped in a cabin on _Enterprise._

Francis had scarcely recognised him once the deed was done, his gaunt features made to look even sharper without gentle curls of hair to soften them.

James is still trying to make peace with it, will occasionally raise a hand to brush away a non-existent lock of hair. It will grow back eventually, to a length that James is used to and prefers, but for now it is short, and curls at the nape of his neck – very prettily, Francis thinks. It certainly speeds up his toilette of a morning, which is one consolation.

“Will you get up?” James asks as he slips into a fine waistcoat, a red dark as blood.

“Not just yet,” Francis says, which makes James smile as he fiddles with small brass buttons.

“Promise me you’ll be up by the time I get back. We can take a walk before dinner.”

Francis sits up a little, propped up on his elbows. “Will you be up to it?”

Fetching his pocket watch from the dressing table, James fixes him a look which suggests _the so-called best walker in the Service can handle a circuit of Regent’s Park, thank you very much._

“What with the rain, I mean,” Francis presses.

James waves a hand at him. “Stop that,” he says, and though his tone is light, Francis still feels he has overstepped. It has been hard to watch this recovery from the sidelines, and he is still figuring out its boundaries. What is helpful and what is not helpful. “I’m in fine fettle.”

That _f_ sounds different in his mouth now, owing to his missing teeth.

He spat one out once, as they had been hauling, and Francis will never forget the sound of it skittering over the shale. It sometimes finds him in the middle of the night and sends a shiver down his spine.

“Alright,” Francis says, “I’m sorry.”

James glances up from arranging the chain of his pocket watch, and Francis is relieved to see the smile on his face. “Rest up,” he says, pulling on his coat. “And we’ll get around the park twice.”

Francis feels such a rush of love that it nearly steals his breath. How sweet it tastes, how easy to let it wash over him. He grins, and resists the urge to leap up and pull James back into bed, prevent him from going out at all. Instead he settles for a raised eyebrow and, “I’ll hold you to that.”

This draws a laugh from James, and a kiss is pressed to Francis’ cheek, and then he is off onto London’s busy streets, a Lazarus in a fashionable coat, a miracle, surely – once he is gone and the house is quiet, Francis drifts off to sleep content in the comfort of sheets warmed by the most miraculous man he has ever known.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> title from At Your Door by Villages, which is a very lovely song
> 
> find me on tumblr - norvegiae.tumble.com


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